Jim's Sick Leave
by Eupa
Summary: Jim catches flu and it falls to two civil servants to keep the country running. Who would've known that a brief absence would lead to all manner of revelations...? Rewritten. Slash.
1. Snuffles of the Mighty

**A/N: Oddly enough, I don't own Yes Minister or Yes Prime Minister, as is hinted at by the fact that this is fanfiction. I know it's a pretty subtle hint; don't worry if you missed it. **

**Written because there aren't enough Yes Minister/Yes Prime Minister fics out there! And because when Bernard said "He's bigger than me" it seriously sounded like an innuendo. I'm sorry, but it did.**

**Note: This has been rewritten. Why? Because it was appalling. It was causing me genuine pain.**

The "egregious" Prime Minister of Great Britain, the Right Honourable Jim Hacker, sneezed. These graduated into increasingly persistent sneezes which he seemed unable to prevent as he scrambled for the white handkerchief kept habitually in his top pocket.

"Are you alright Minister?" Bernard asked from his seat at the end of the long table, pencil poised above his notebook, wondering how exactly to express a sneeze in shorthand.

"Yes I'm absolutely-_ACHOO_!" The Prime Minister's last word was obscured by a truly tremendous sneeze, one that seemed to shake the very foundations (or at least the nuclear bunkers) of Downing Street.

Sir Humphrey Appleby, famous for using many long words and saying very little, recoiled slightly. This was probably because his seat was opposite the minister, as was his new tie. A rather expensive new _silk_ tie. The sort that would be irreparably damaged by such outbursts.

"Minister, you are clearly-" This was interrupted by another sneeze from the Prime Minister, and a slight flicker of concern for his tie crossing Sir Humphrey's visage. "Not feeling quite yourself today-"

"What are you suggesting-_Achoo_-Humphrey? I should-_Achoo_-take a day off?" Jim sighed, still holding his handkerchief to his nose, eyes watering slightly from the forceful sneezing. His head felt like a sponge, or like it was filled with sponge; he wasn't quite sure which, and the dull heaviness seeming to press down on his eyes prompted him to resolve that it was immaterial. Either way, a sponge was involved in his simile somehow.

Bernard and Sir Humphrey exchanged looks, and for a moment there an odd sort of symmetry in their facial expressions. It was some mixture of mild concern and seeking a second opinion, or perhaps simply a 'Hacker is such a fool' mutual glance. "Yes." They replied in unison, turning back to Hacker, whose sponge-filled or spongy mind found the entire thing mildly unnerving. This symmetry and odd unison, as though all civil servants were linked on some deep telepathic level, was not helping his headache. Perhaps, Hacker wondered, there were civil servants all nodding and saying the same words in every government building in London at that moment. Simultaneously, through sheer force of shared first-class degrees.

Jim Hacker began to protest, even though several of his faces were fairly convinced that it was pointless. All he wanted to do was go home and sleep. "I can't do that! I have a country to run! I can't just drop everything and _ACHOO_!"

"Minister, attempting to run a country whilst in this state is of very little benefit to anyone, and may in fact go so far as to have a negative impact, or at least be a significant hindrance, to any political or governmental decisions you might deign to-"

"Short sentences, if you would be _so_ kind Humphrey. I don't feel well enough to deal in riddles today." Hacker wiped his handkerchief across his nose again. Sooner or later, it looked liable to be worn away by sheer force of handkerchief. Erosion and all that. Or at the very least, begin to sting.

Bernard couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at this. Really, the Prime Minister must be ill if he thought that possible! Personally, the Principal Private Secretary had his doubts, and made a severe effort not to smirk at the thought.

"That's words _under_ five syllables Sir Humphrey." Unable to resist the muttered jest, he smirked down the table at his boss, ready to wipe away the grin at a moment's notice. Bernard could never be sure whether his sense of humour truly irritated Humphrey, or if there were some exceptions to this general rule of annoyance.

Sir Humphrey responded solely with a slight tilt of his eyes (a full eye roll would be undignified), and Bernard felt it safe to keep the grin on his face for a few moments longer. "Very well Prime Minister." Humphrey's tone almost slipped into a drawl, a mixture of contempt and feigned civility. "Go home. Rest. Recover."

"Nothing-_Achoo_-Wrong with-_Achoo_-Me..." Jim insisted, through his graduating levels of sneeze.

Bernard reached for the telephone as its shrill tones demanded attention, raising it to his ear and pausing with a hand over the mouthpiece to relay the message. "The Prime Minister's doctor is here." At a nod from Sir Humphrey, and pointedly ignoring the Prime Minister's attempts to formulate a protest, Bernard asked for the doctor to be let through.

"Bernard I don't need-_ACHOO_!"

Sir Humphrey flinched again, abruptly recovering his composure whilst surreptitiously moving back slightly from the table. "I agree with Bernard." Adjusting the papers in front of him, Sir Humphrey continued without looking up, in tones of airy unconcern. "It is hardly a crisis period; we can manage perfectly well without you-I mean, your policies are firmly enforced enough to survive your brief absence, Prime Minister." A silky smile, which really should be impossible, was hastily pasted to his face to conceal or distract from this error. Even the most senior of civil servants have at some point suffered a brief moment of truth.

"I'm the Prime Minister! _ACHOO_!"

Bernard glanced up as the doctor passed through into the inner sanctum of government, heading for the Prime Minister with swift steps, and placing his bag carefully on an available seat with a brief greeting. After all, he was missing time from his rounds, and that meant money falling through his fingers.

"There's no need-"

Sir Humphrey and Bernard nodded at the doctor, who proceeded to examine the Prime Minister. His face was utterly unaffected as he finished his tests, efficient and unexpectedly quick. Unlike the civil service, Hacker mentally remarked, prompting a smirk that sent a shudder of dread through Sir Humphrey- had the Prime Minister had another accursed idea?

The diagnosis, when it came, was concise. "Prime Minister, I'm afraid you have a mild flu."

"Mild-_ACHOO!_-FLU?"

Snapping shut the clasps on his bag, the doctor declared, with a slight sigh of irritation at the familiar stubborn refusal to accept his diagnosis, despite the fact that he was the one who'd been to medical school, and had the scars to prove it! "The onset of flu to be precise."

"What should we do?" Bernard asked him, scrutinising the Prime Minister's appearance as though hoping to discern the answer from facial expression alone.

"Well Mr Hacker here should get a large amount of rest. As soon as possible, and for several days." The doctor's tone was steely and similar to that of a parent admonishing a child. That was usually the best way to deal with stubborn patients.

"I can't be off work for _days_!" Jim protested, before a coughing fit prevented him from saying anything more. A relief, by anyone's standards.

"I have told you Minister, we can manage perfectly well until you return. It's not as though we are at war-" Humphrey made a sweeping hand gesture, but it went utterly unappreciated, as usual, save by the doctor who misinterpreted it as a command to leave the room, much to his relief.

"By the time I get back we could well be!" Hacker protested, handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth, rendering his voice somewhat muffled.

"Do you have that little faith in us, Prime Minister?" Sir Humphrey asked, a silky smile back on his face. Bernard merely glanced at Sir Humphrey with a slight twinge of his eyebrow.

Jim was too absorbed by his coughing and sneezing to reply beyond one word. "Alright-"

"Thank you Prime Minister." Sir Humphrey beamed, victory obvious in every fibre of his facial expression. "Bernard, would you phone down for a car to take the Prime Minister to his constituency for the prescribed rest?"

Bernard followed Sir Humphrey's instructions instinctively, and soon Jim Hacker was on his way home to his constituency, coughing and sneezing all the way, to his driver's horror.

"Well this is excellent." Sir Humphrey continued to beam as he sat back down, pouring a glass of sherry for himself and Bernard. Bernard accepted his with more caution than it warranted.

"Well, hardly excellent." Bernard's tone was questioning, and Humphrey frowned slightly in response. How could he not see the fantastic potential of power? Sometimes, he did wonder if Bernard's conscience would allow him to be a proper civil servant...

"Whatever do you mean Bernard? We don't have to waste time persuading the Prime Minister to take the right decision or pander to his publicity seeking- we can just do it all ourselves!" Sir Humphrey finished his drink, pondering his next move. Time to revel in his new powers, of course.

"Ah yes, manipulating one's minister does get awfully tiring after a while."

"Do I detect sarcasm in your tone Bernard?" Humphrey asked, rising to his feet, and risking a glance across at his colleague.

"Of course not Sir Humphrey, of course not." Bernard's grin was stifled but still obvious, and Sir Humphrey sighed, forcing his expression to contain more gravitas than he felt.

"Well, I have a dinner appointment. I trust you can keep everything in one piece until I return?" Without waiting for an answer, Sir Humphrey left the room. The time to revel was nigh.

"I'll try!" Bernard shouted at the closed door as it swung shut, although it seemed pointless; he'd already gone.

"I should hope so Bernard..." The reply echoed from further down the corridor, as though Humphrey was somehow omniscient and omnipresent. No politician would ever be safe again.

**A/N: Please Review!**


	2. Jimless: Doors

**A/N: Has been edited. Is now bearable, I hope.**

The first day without the Prime Minister at the helm.

The deputy Prime Minister was not particularly involved- they never really were. A facade. A fallback option for the public, not a real seat of authority.

Bernard sighed as he sifted through the latest batch of paperwork that didn't need the personal approval of the Prime Minister: everything except one invitation to dinner at the Foreign Secretary's house in three weeks. Even civil servants are not always immune to the sheer volume of futile reports reporting the reported quotations of previous reports, reported to have been received several days before and now at a stage of indirect speech that would baffle most linguists.

This reverie was interrupted by the office door opposite his desk swinging open, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer (and deputy PM) exiting the meeting room. On some impulse that didn't present itself for analysis, Bernard grinned at Sir Humphrey. Humphrey was still seated within this room, in the chair next to Jim Hacker's usual one- a gesture to disguise his thrill at being in charge.

Sir Humphrey didn't appear to have noticed Bernard's friendly grin as he resumed his study of the papers before him, his eyes firmly ordered to the page and resolutely testing their master's willpower, which any could say was considerable. A bit more disappointed than he thought he ought to be, Bernard raised a hand to his head and continued noting the necessary responses to each report/letter/request/administrative query/unavoidable dinner/future meeting/vague note.

In a state of considerably less activity, Humphrey Appleby's eyes flicked to the door as it swung back to its original position, catching a flicker of Bernard's grin before the room was once more cut off from the Private office by a door of solid wood. Not soundproof, but most decidedly a barrier to any attempt at a returning gesture of cordial acknowledgement.

After an interval of almost half an hour, Bernard was interrupted in his work by a sharp cough from directly in front of him. Regrettably, his reflexes seemed to be in a state of lethargy, and he half-leapt from his seat at the sight of his boss. "I'm sorry Sir Humphrey, I err- well I- the paperwork was, um..."

Cutting Bernard off in mid-excuse- Humphrey never really understood why the other civil servant treated him like a vengeful overlord, not that he would not ordinarily appreciate respect, but from Bernard it just seemed peculiar. He wasn't going to reprimand him for something as unimportant as not noticing his arrival! "Bernard, we have a meeting."

"We have a meeting?" Bernard blinked at the inclusive pronoun; he had assumed that Sir Humphrey would attend to all business himself- civil servants did not usually care to share power.

"Well, we have a meeting because the Prime Minister would have had the meeting and we are filling in for him." How Humphrey wished that Bernard would wipe that bewilderment from his visage. It was most unbecoming.

His mind did not even notice the connotation that usually, without such an expression, Bernard was rather _more_ becoming.

At a loss for anything to really say, Bernard's expression remained the same. "Ah." He was never entirely sure where he stood when it came to Sir Humphrey. His boss, but always quite distant. Almost treated him like an apprentice sometimes, and at others, like a conspirator with Hacker. Maybe, his mind prompted him, Humphrey wasn't sure quite where to place him either.

Taking this monosyllabic response for assent, Sir Humphrey turned sharply and returned to the doors, holding them open with one spread-eagled hand and waiting calmly as Bernard darted to catch up. The latter muttered a thank you, and also moved to hold the door. In one of those awkward moments of social confusion, neither actually let go of the door nor moved to enter. After a brief exchange of looks, Sir Humphrey smirked in mild amusement and gestured with his free hand.

"After you, Bernard."

Feeling the prickling of embarrassment beginning to near his face, Bernard slipped past Sir Humphrey- there was significantly less room to pass in the doorway than he had expected- and his boss released the door, stepping in deftly, as no door would ever dare to hit the heels of a Permanent Secretary.

Scouring the recesses of his mind for Hacker's diary entries, Bernard spoke, with some hesitation. "And this meeting is regarding the...ex-bishop and his new sect?"

"Yes Bernard. The _rich_ and _influential_ ex-Bishop of Winchester." Humphrey stressed the words significantly, organising some papers in front of him and deftly slipping into his usual seat to the left of the absent minister's.

"Of course. The rich and influential bishop." Bernard repeated, in a quieter voice. The civil service always gave preference to new sects with money.

Bernard had barely sat down before the phone rang and he relayed the message to let the bishop through. Replacing the phone on its cradle with a dull plastic noise, Bernard glanced over his shoulder, craning his neck slightly to watch for this bishop; he was expecting some sort of eccentric individual. Humphrey's cough attracted his attention, but he failed to understand what Humphrey was trying to say with his eye movements. Moving somewhere, no doubt, but where? Bernard remained at the other end of the table, uncertain.

Sir Humphrey abandoned such attempts at _come here Bernard_ and watched the door swing inwards. A short man in a slightly scruffy but generally presentable suit, with some sort of insignia on the lapel, wandered in with the shuffling steps of one accustomed to carrying their body weight in thick woollen robes. A disappointment for Bernard.

Sir Humphrey's face remained impassive as he took in the man's appearance; he wasn't there to judge it, but the suit looked rather ill-fitting...

Nevertheless, the treasury had already voiced their opinion on the matter: any new source of revenue was not to be refused lightly. With economic turbulence on the horizon, the treasury was eager to grab all the money it could, and occasionally more.

"Good morning Mr Hewlett." Humphrey's flattering smile flew into place as he gestured to the seat on the opposite side of the table.

Slightly confused, Mr Hewlett peered at Humphrey carefully, before appearing to reach a decision. "I thought my meeting was with the Prime Minister-"

"I'm afraid the Prime Minister is indisposed- a sudden illness." Sir Humphrey interrupted, with a careless wave of his hand.

"I hope it is nothing serious." The former bishop nodded in what might have been seen as a sagely fashion, had he not looked like a nodding dog puppet. How unfortunate.

"It isn't. And we are perfectly qualified to listen to your proposal." Sir Humphrey glanced at Bernard, and the latter again had the feeling that Humphrey was trying to tell him something as the man took his seat.

Eyes moving from Bernard to the empty chair, back again, what more did the man need? A marching band with banners? Humphrey, exasperated, gave up. Bernard would sit as soon as he did, he supposed, and promptly did so.

"Let me begin by saying quite how keen we are on preserving a tie with the government." The elderly man beamed, but Bernard caught something amiss in his smile, and the way his hand strayed to his pocket, as though primed to pull out a handkerchief, but never actually doing so. Bishops were a strange lot, and perhaps ex-bishops were even more so. He might have a twitch of some description- it wouldn't be wise to draw attention to it.

Humphrey smiled and leant back slightly in his chair, utterly unaware of Bernard's mental meanderings. "I'm sure the government would appreciate such a gesture."

For a while, Sir Humphrey and this bishop discussed figures, potential donations, and cost of getting recognised as a religion. It was only once Sir Humphrey's attention was turned directly to the sheets of costings from the treasury to find some obscure data that the bishop's expression changed. A glint of something in his palm was seen by Bernard, who froze, even though he had no idea what it was.

"Sir H-"

Regrettably, this prompted the bishop to leap to his feet, with far more energy than might otherwise be expected, and lurch towards Bernard, bearing a knife that looked suspiciously like one made of bone. A metal one would set off the detectors. Without thinking, Bernard scooped up the phone. "Securit-"

Sir Humphrey's head snapped up as Bernard's words were cut off in mid-stream, and could only watch in horror as things happened at a far quicker speed than he was accustomed to. As the knife sliced through the telephone wire with a venomous intent, sending Bernard reeling backwards, Humphrey's mind found his body to be rather more adept at running than he'd expected. In fact, it was an odd feeling, a sort of disconnection, some purely primitive force driving him forward in some doubtless doomed attempt to destroy the new threat. How he intended to do this had not crossed his mind. In fact, his mind was utterly uninvolved in the whole process, but it couldn't help wondering if this was a normal reaction to a colleague being imperilled. A sense of blind fear and desperation, mindless attempts at rescue even though every single fibre of his body was ill-suited to such?

Like some sort of animal defending its mate.

That thought was abruptly stricken from his mental records.

Bernard stared up in horror as the bishop leered down at him, pointing the dagger and raising a hand. "Tell him to stop, and stay right there, or I will discontinue your existence."

Bernard attempted to swallow around the lump in his throat and merely nodded at Sir Humphrey, who stopped dead. Most decidedly not a tactful way to describe his absolute lack of movement, but it would do. _Discontinue your existence_. What kind of stupid euphemism was that? This did not seem like a wise conversational topic, so Bernard instead opted for the typical. "What do you want?"

The lunatic smirked. "A certain...investment opportunity for your government is seeming rather more opulent than you expected now, isn't it?"

Bernard made some mental calculations. If security had been informed, they should be here in about a minute. That meant he had to get far enough away from the madman to be safe in a minute's time. Prevent some hostage situation turning up, like a pathetic action film. "Security are on their way."

The threat seemed empty from Bernard's lips. Humphrey wondered if he could somehow dart across and grab the damnable implement, but his mind merely scoffed. Perhaps if this was a film, or if he were a man of action. Neither was true.

"Then it appears you have only one choice. You do not know my real name. Nothing I have said is real. The real Hewlett is dead, and I have taken his life to add to my own. You will allow me my sect, a little indulgence from you, and I will not find it necessary to kill your friend." He directed his words at Sir Humphrey, who paled.

"Come along, it's not such a very difficult choice."

Gloating words, assured in victory. Bernard met Humphrey's gaze, as inscrutable as ever.

"Would you prefer me to just kill him?"

Not really a question. But it wasn't important, Bernard thought. He could probably be replaced very easily. Meanwhile, Humphrey found this suggestion the most appalling and unpleasant he had ever heard. Anger unparalleled rose, and as Bernard flinched, drawing attention back to himself, Humphrey took a few steps forward, urging Bernard to distract the maniac.

Fortuitously, security chose that moment to haul their heavy footsteps up the stairs, and as the "bishop" flinched and glanced around for escape routes, Bernard found the motivation to scramble as far away as possible. Snarling at his escaping bargaining counter, the man lashed out, a blow which would have carved a groove into the back of Bernard's skull had Humphrey not managed, somehow, to deflect him with a rather pathetic blow, that somehow connected with the man's elbow, jarring the most vulnerable of "funny" bones.

A smashed window later and security had hurtled off in pursuit, leaving a couple of officers behind to check on the civil servants.

Bernard simply stammered his thanks, and Humphrey crisply ordered that the window be fixed within the hour, before sweeping out of the room and across to his own office.

Bewildered and probably in some odd variation of shock, Bernard shrugged the entire business off as generally not-as-bad-as-it-could-have-been and made a visible effort not to show quite how much he wanted to collapse as he returned to his desk.

He was grateful, but the adrenalin was confusing his thoughts; he should thank Sir Humphrey but he was already gone. It had all been some sort of blurred dream...

Humphrey let himself into his study, locked the door and collapsed at his desk, with the slightest shake of his shoulders as he sighed, a shuddering expression of relief. He was fine, Bernard was fine.

One thing was bothering him: _Like an animal defending its mate._

It was such a bizarre thing to think in a time of crisis. Absurd. Laughable. The real shock had yet to sink in, and this was his way of detaining it, until he could return home and crumble in peace.

An hour later, Humphrey gave a message to one of Bernard's colleagues that he intended to phone the PM. He didn't need to inform Bernard, and he wasn't sure why he was doing so. It just seemed appropriate. Three interlocutors were far better than two.

"Minister?" Humphrey inquired as the ringing ceased at the other end of the line.

"-cough- Yes? Humphrey?" A faint, wheezy voice with overtones of phlegm replied.

"Yes Minister."

"Hello Minister." A third voice interjected, slightly more tentatively.

"Bernard! Hello-cough-"

"Are you feeling any better, Prime Minister?"

A series of coughs was the only response, and in a brief pause when Jim Hacker was presumably muffling his snufflings in a handkerchief.

Humphrey's drawl took advantage of the lapse in coughing to present itself again. "I think that would be a no Bernard."

"Minister?" No reply was heard, nor was any more coughing.

There was an odd croaking noise, and another voice intervened. "I'm sorry, Jim seems to have lost his voice."

"Hello Mrs Hacker. Could you please put him back on the line for a moment?" Sir Humphrey's tone slipped into a drawling tone of excessive politeness.

"Of course, but he won't be able to reply." Mrs Hacker replied, unaffected, before vanishing from the telephone line.

A sound of heavy breathing and a stifled cough followed shortly.

"Is that you Minister?" Bernard inquired cautiously. "Cough twice if it is." Humphrey raised an eyebrow, from where he stood, holding a private office telephone to his ear.

Two coughs reached their ears, followed by a coughing fit. Bernard felt heat rush to his face as his suggestion failed utterly.

"Minister-" Sir Humphrey cut in and did his general technique of tergiversation, with the maximum number of syllables per word. Bernard raised an eyebrow, as even he, a fellow civil servant, lost track of what Sir Humphrey was on about?

The Prime Minister recovered his voice enough to whisper. "What are you –_cough_- talking-_sneeze_- about Humphrey? Is everything solved –_cough_- Bernard?"

After a momentary hesitation, Bernard's reply was somewhat unconvincing, but Hacker did not seem to notice. "Yes Minister."

"Good." This was followed by a coughing fit punctuated by a few sneezes. Annie took the phone again. "I'm sorry, he can't talk anymore. Goodbye."

"Goodbye Mrs Hacker." Both civil servants replied in an awkward unison, before the phone line went dead.

After a brief pause, Bernard ventured a question. "Sir Humphrey, what exactly did you tell him?"

"You were listening to the conversation, were you not, Bernard?"

"I heard, but didn't even try to understand."

"Good. You're learning."

"But-" Bernard seemed likely to be on the brink of making some conscience-questioning statement, and Humphrey interrupted him with a simple fact.

"Bernard I am standing three metres behind you- the use of a telephone seems rather superfluous."

"Ah. Yes. Quite so." Bernard hastily replaced the phone and turned in time to see Sir Humphrey do the same.

"Bernard, have you made sure that security knows not to let that maniac in again?"

"Yes Sir Humphrey."

"Good."

Without another word, Sir Humphrey vanished through the green baize door, and back to his own office.

As he trod the familiar path to his office, not that it was particularly far, Bernard's expression as he shut the door behind him recalled the fear of the younger man's untimely demise to Humphrey's mind.

Illogical, and hideously out of proportion.

How very queer.

Two hours later, half an hour beyond "closing time" if such an expression might be used, Sir Humphrey emerged from his office, his mind still in a state of mild confusion. To his surprise, he was greeted by the sight of Bernard, stubbornly stuck behind his desk, rubbing a hand across tired eyes.

"Bernard."

"Sir Humphrey." Too tired to be appropriately surprised, Bernard glanced up at his boss, pen hovering over a lengthy paragraph presented for editing.

For once, Humphrey was not in the mood to beat about the bush. "Bernard, what are you doing here at this hour?"

"Paperwork, Sir Humphrey."

"I can see that." Sir Humphrey gazed pointedly at the pile of pages; Bernard had a certain knack for stating the obvious that might prove to be a hindrance to his later career. "Bernard, most of that paperwork is unnecessary."

"Sir Humphrey, this is the civil service, most of the paperwork is unnecessary."

Sir Humphrey almost smiled; a genuine smile. "Be that as it may, you have other responsibilities. We are Prime Minister for the week. Go home and rest."

"I've just got to finish this-" Bernard swallowed a yawn with some difficulty, although the expression on Humphrey's face suggested that he was not even remotely fooled.

"I would prefer you to be awake tomorrow; the job of the civil service is never to be tackled with a fatigued mind."

"This will have doubled by tomorrow." Bernard protested, despite his sagging eyelids that threatened to plunge him into the world of sleep at any moment.

Without another word, Sir Humphrey picked up the stack of paper, which was significantly heavier than it looked, and moved it across to a neighbouring desk.

A brief note was added to the top of the pile: please take care of Bernard's paperwork until his other role has ended, signed by Sir Humphrey.

"But Sir Humphrey-" The younger civil servant attempted once again to protest at what he thought would be an unfair burden to place on his colleagues' shoulders.

"If you think that overworking yourself shall save you from the Prime Minister's duties then think again Bernard. I am not going to deal with them all on my own." Sir Humphrey declared as he turned on his heel and left the building, briefcase swinging by his side.

Now standing behind his desk, Bernard saw little alternative but to pack up and depart. Mental bemusements and fatigue were most certainly not conducive to immaculate paperwork.

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, Bernard would swear that, on some level, his boss did care about his welfare. It was probably just the administration of some staff welfare policy.

What else could it possibly be?


	3. Jimless: Inadvertence

_**A/N: Thank you to those who are awesome enough to watch the original comedy, and especially those of you who review. Note: Rewritten. Hell yeah.**_

Sir Humphrey's unruffled interior was utterly destroyed by the small pile of messages taken by the PM's office: threats, mostly. It would appear that the police were now tracing the culprit. Downing Street security had managed to catch the lunatic from yesterday, and supposed this was an accomplice. A pretty useless one, it appeared, who had managed to phone several other departments before actually reaching the appropriate office. Apparently several local companies had also been receiving such odd threats. The ineptitude relaxed Sir Humphrey slightly, but inner turmoil remained.

Of course, his exterior was as calm as anyone could expect; as if his emotions would be displayed openly wherever he went! The apocalypse would indeed draw near...The thin end of the wedge, perchance.

After a meeting with Undersecretaries and an irritated Frank- although of course Humphrey could only discern such discontent after years of glancing beyond smarmy grins- a phone call explaining the current situation was received, and all was just as Sir Humphrey desired. After all, he _was_ Cabinet Secretary. It didn't hurt that he governed all promotions in the Civil service; it was alarming how quickly members of that service could be brought around to his perspective.

Sweeping the notes of recorded messages into a large envelope for delivery to the appropriate department, Humphrey paused for a moment as his thoughts, by his standards, ran riot into the realm of subjunctives, some bemusing hints which he pointedly ignored...

Sir Humphrey was jerked from the absorption of his own thoughts as he opened the dull green door leading into the Private Office, formerly on autopilot.

"Good morning Sir Humphrey." Bernard did not think to catch himself before a greeting grin appeared on his visage. A friendly gesture, obviously- what else could it be? Besides, Sir Humphrey _had_ saved his life the day before. Gratitude and the simple wish to be of use spurred Bernard on in this amiable expression. Considering the increasingly bold fretting at the back of his mind regarding his appearance, professionalism and general aptitude, simple was most decidedly not the most appropriate word to use, even in a mental monologue. A part of his mind muttered something snide about his internal pedantry and was told, in no uncertain terms, to shut up.

Sir Humphrey noted the grin with an attempt at abstract observation, although he was distinctly flattered- or, as his mind described it, _gratified_ by the acknowledgement of his arrival. Of course. What else could it possibly be?

"Good morning Bernard. How is the Prime Minister?" Quiet, cordial questions. Nothing more.

"Much better, Sir Humphrey. He expects to return soon." Bernard's enthusiasm clashed rather spectacularly with Humphrey's exasperated sigh. Politicians could never bear to be away from the limelight for very long. As Sir Humphrey saw it, even if they _were_ at death's door, at least they weren't under _his_ feet.

"Pity." Sir Humphrey replied, not meeting Bernard's gaze or acknowledging the dry smile of amusement on his colleague's face, although he did not doubt its presence for a moment.

Bernard scooped up his paperwork on the day's affairs and followed his boss towards the door to the cabinet room, catching it in his free hand before Humphrey had time to hold it open. Fortunately, his boss did not pause for long in the doorway, and so failed to notice how close Bernard was as a result.

It was a typically lengthy and inane cabinet meeting, in which the only thing that kept Bernard awake was the necessity of note-taking and an odd compulsion to stop himself watching Sir Humphrey's expressions completely fail to accurately express his opinion. There was something captivating about the facade, although captivating as a description seemed to fit the entire effect far too well. Humphrey, in his turn, found himself oddly conscious, if not distracted, by the faint noise of pen scratching on a notepad clenched in Bernard's hand; being Cabinet Secretary he did not _get_ distracted, of course. It simply seemed louder, more prominent today. It rendered listening to politicians even more tediously impossible, but none of this showed on his face. On occasion, his eyes sauntered from the speaking cabinet minister to the expression on Bernard's face, either concentrated on the notepad on his knee or watching with a slightly quizzical raised eyebrow as a minister babbled, his hand seeming to jot down notes of its own accord. Naturally, if their eyes met, it was simply the coincidence of watching the same person speak. That was obvious. Regardless, both took pains to ensure it did not happen again, as though it was somehow taboo. An unspoken agreement? Some instinct?

A mystery that neither took much time to answer, since neither was sure what that answer would reveal. One rule of the Civil Service: if you don't know the result in advance, don't organise the inquiry.

To summarise, both Bernard and Humphrey were far too good at being civil servants to really investigate these small hints, minute signs of inadvertent avoidance.

But both were also too shrewd and observant to ignore such things for long.

As the meeting ground to a halt and the cabinet dispersed, Humphrey found himself in a rush to leave, which he put down to the pile of work waiting in his office. He barely allowed himself time to bid goodbye to Bernard in passing – the other civil servant had only just closed his notebook – and was gone, heading towards his own office, with his hands suspiciously devoid of paperwork.

As Bernard noticed this, he turned to hail his boss, only to find that the older man had vanished into the corridor. Making a decision that he had a suspicion that he would regret, Bernard tucked the papers back into the file, ensuring that they were all in order and leaving the room in the direction of Humphrey's office.

It certainly was unlike his boss to leave such materials lying about, and Bernard cleared his throat for the delicate question he was about to ask, regardless of consequences, as he knew his mental nags would not be satisfied until he had sought Humphrey's response.

A swift tap of knuckles to the door was greeted with the command to enter. Sir Humphrey sounded as sharp as usual, but something in his temporary befuddled expression rested in Bernard's mind, even as it disappeared behind the mask of efficiency and control.

"Ah, Bernard. Come in."

"Sir Humphrey." Bernard crossed to the desk, leaving the door to close gently behind him, and held out the file. "You left this in the cabinet room."

"Ah. Thank you Bernard." Humphrey's embarrassment remained safely hidden, but a certain tightness in the lines of his face might have drawn attention from one who knew him well. He placed them to one side atop a pile of similar files and glanced expectantly at Bernard, who must be standing there for a reason. "Anything else, Bernard?"

A half-smile of gratitude was appropriate, and Bernard felt his own grin form in response without any effort, any pretence. Nervousness ate into his stance, and had he been less schooled in self-control, he might have fidgeted. Sir Humphrey waited silently, observing these changes with a hint of bemusement. What was so delicate a topic that Bernard was reluctant to broach it?

A thought suggested itself far too eagerly, and Humphrey hefted it to the back of his mind and firmly ordered it to be silent. Ridiculous notion. Why was it that these thoughts had started appearing when he contemplated Bernard, or even saw the man? It was absurd!

"I just wondered if anything was troubling you, Sir Humphrey?" The lift at the end of the sentence made it sound like the question it was, and Humphrey merely shook his head slightly in response.

"Nothing Bernard." What a lie. Bernard was troubling him. Or rather, his mind's odd thoughts related to Bernard were bothering him. Driving him mad, perhaps. The Madness of Sir Humphrey Appleby. Noticing the slight disappointment – how inexplicable – or rueful apology in the Principal Private Secretary's face, Humphrey graced him with a smile. Again, rather an odd reaction, but this thought was pushed aside as Bernard reciprocated the gesture. "But thank you for your concern."

"Not at all, Sir Humphrey." Bernard's gaze shifted to his shoes for a moment, but exerting willpower, he retained focus on his boss' face. When that had become quite so difficult, or when his face began starting to split into grins without provocation, was not apparent. This was fast becoming a basis for scientific study.

Silence stretched onwards for a moment, and Sir Humphrey found his mouth making a decision without the input of his mind – anarchy and dissent among the ranks! This was quickly becoming a dangerous precedent.

Eleven thirty. "Would you care for lunch, Bernard?"

The stunned expression on the awkward man's face was oddly amusing, but Humphrey's only indication of this was a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. As Bernard's mind checked that he had processed the words correctly and arrived at the correct meaning, he stammered his acceptance.

"Excellent."

Confused, Bernard checked for the diary under his arm. It was likely a work-related lunch. "Should I get the diary, Sir Humphrey?"

"I hardly think that's necessary Bernard." Humphrey raised an eyebrow, silently inviting Bernard to explain such an apparently unrelated question.

"Sorry, I assumed you wished to change the Prime Minister's appointments-"

Humphrey allowed himself the brief luxury of a chuckle. "I see. I merely meant to celebrate our brief freedom from the malingering minister."

"Ah. Right." Bernard's gormless expression vanished, and an awkward but much more amiable grin slid into place. For some reason, the thought of lunch was much more appealing without the presence of a hefty diary, epitomising work, lounging in the middle of the table. As he had deposited his own files on his desk already, he had nothing to sort out.

With a casual glance over his shoulder, Sir Humphrey uttered the typical phrase that Bernard seemed to merit more than any other civil servant. "Come along Bernard."

Hastening to follow his boss, Bernard wondered, for a brief second, if he was having palpitations. Maybe he should see his doctor...


	4. Jimless: Dozing

The restaurant was perhaps almost too much as Bernard had expected. Sir Humphrey was, after all, a man of calm exterior and discretion, one might even say secrecy.

Entering through a door Machiavellian to the extent that it could be walked past half a dozen times without a second glance, Humphrey allowed the waiter, a silent but courteous man, to lead them to the table. There was little chance of bumping elbows with any other patrons as the tables were separated from each other by at least a metre, conversations taking place in what seemed to be interlocking whispers which rolled into small bubbles of sound, flickering into and out of existence unobtrusively. Even the movement of the waiters seemed to fade into the background, and it took Bernard several minutes to work out that the kitchen door was located behind a column and pot plant. Peaceful, serene even. Quite a dramatic change from the halls of Westminster or the hubbub of the Prime Minister's Private Office. The colours were pale but not unpleasant, floor tiled in a simple pattern of diamonds, ceiling high enough to allow sound to drift beyond perception, and the varnished wooden wall absorbed sound. Even sat almost exactly in the corner, as they were, Bernard had a suspicion the wall would swallow his words.

Permitting himself to relax slightly, Humphrey adjusted his seat, the wall at his back making this manoeuvre slightly difficult. He was far more comfortable with a wooden wall at his back and left hand, and at Bernard's back and right, on the opposite side of the table. Hemmed in, perhaps. But it could not be denied that there was a calmness to the seclusion. This sort of establishment was haven for Humphrey, away from the concerns of work, and some part of his mind (an erratic and irksome part which would not _be silent_) voiced the opinion that it was odd to invite a colleague to a haven from his occupation. It was not one of the civil service haunts, but a haven from the bustle. Nevertheless, he had no particular fear that Bernard would disrupt that. Almost as soon as this thought crossed his mind, Bernard's slight clumsiness nearly knocked a knife onto the floor- quite a metallic clang it would have made too- but the private secretary managed to catch it in his other hand, a slight embarrassment covering his face for a moment.

No, it must be admitted, Sir Humphrey's internal monologue continued, that there was something about Bernard that set him apart from the rest of the service. The lights hanging over the tables or clinging to the walls like fungus dimmed fractionally, but neither commented upon it. Yes, there was something about Bernard's approach to the civil service, with his sharp tongue, nervous flush and quiet manipulative talent that set him apart. His loyalty, perhaps? The friendship between the civil servant and Hacker conflicted so often with his ties to the service that he ended up asking questions that had never occurred to Humphrey himself. _Why? To what end?_ It was refreshing, but Humphrey knew that if Bernard had been assigned to another boss, he might well have found himself in Swansea vehicle licensing centre many years earlier. It was odd that he kept him in the department, even with his promise of being a high-flier. Fortunate that Bernard was not moronic enough to display such independent thinking around other permanent secretaries, or Humphrey might well have had no choice; the civil service did not take kindly to innovation. He knew that Bernard had fed ideas to the minister, now Prime Minister, on occasion, and that other Permanent secretaries were not convinced that he was sound. The lights faded altogether, and silence fell, not that it made much difference.

Humphrey sighed. He supposed it was because he knew, somehow, that one day Bernard would be at the top of the civil service. And the principal private secretary would probably do a far better job than he was at present.

How self-deprecating.

The lights flickered back on, and after a brief exchange of puzzled looks and helpful reassurances from previously monosyllabic waiters, the conversations returned to normal. Or rather, almost normal. One stray question on Humphrey's mind was _when_ exactly he had become interested in Bernard's career, and when he had acquired so much faith in his prospects. It simply _would not do_ to get emotionally involved in such things- not that he was. How could he be? Ridiculous.

Exchanging a brief smile and raised eyebrow, both civil servants had ordered food and the waiter vanished.

Well, it simply wouldn't do to sit here in silence. Bernard was tired of silence, and his original feeling that it was up to Humphrey to start a conversation had faded somewhat. With so little noise, it felt all the more obvious, as though there was some sort of giant goldfish bowl enclosing both civil servants.

"The PM seemed awfully pleased with the Anglo-Greek trading plans." His voice was rather quieter than he'd intended, making him sound rather more unsure and awkward than he'd hoped, and once more exasperating Bernard beyond reasonable measure; his own vocal cords were conspiring to make him appear to be a timid fool.

Sir Humphrey scoffed, sipping at the wine delivered a few minutes before in a feat of subtle table-waiting, if one could use such a verb. "The PM does not know his _Ulysses _from his _Odyssey._"

Bernard's chuckle seemed to break the tension like a knife through taut string, but Sir Humphrey ignored the success he felt at this mild achievement of humour.

"Have you read _Ulysses, _Bernard?"

"I tried, Sir Humphrey."

"What did you think?"

"I thought it was unreadable, Sir Humphrey."

A rich, dry chuckle that sounded as though it had been matured for years, like the wine in his boss' hand- **Shut up**, Bernard commanded his thoughts, which were malingering far too close to the boundary of excessive simile to be safe.

"Indeed." Literature seemed as good a topic as any to begin with. "Which books do you prefer to read, Bernard?" It was odd to think that he had known the man for several years and yet never had a real opportunity to talk to him about such mundane but interesting things. Their line of work did not lend itself much to such matters of personal taste. He'd also never found time to attempt such conversations before now. It seemed a shame, suddenly, that they had spent quite so long in silence and Sir Humphrey resolved, for no reason that he cared to examine closely, that it was worth keeping the conversation going. Perhaps he would see the potential he detected.

Some excuse.

Bernard hovered between elaboration to impress and the truth. His boss would probably see through his claims of classical texts in the blink of an eye. "Oliver Twist?" Ever awkward, Bernard's own statement of reading preferences seemed a question, and Humphrey smiled in slight amusement.

"I wouldn't have expected you to be a fan of Dickens, Bernard."

Bernard shrugged, reaching for his own glass of wine for lack of anything else to occupy his hands. "I wouldn't consider myself a fan of Dickens; a fan of that particular novel, perhaps."

"Your favourite?"

This question was greeted with a rueful grin. "Not particularly." Expecting a further question on why he had even brought up the book at all, Bernard replaced the wine carefully on the table and continued, with slight anxiety. "I- that is to say, I thought it would be most-um, well, least likely to call my tastes in literature into question."

He was pleasantly surprised by Humphrey's response: a chuckle. One of the rare occasions when his laugh was genuine, and his entire visage seemed to relax slightly, hinting at the reality behind the mask that never fell away completely, even for a second.

"It wasn't a trick question, Bernard." Sir Humphrey smirked as he took another dignified sip from his wine.

Dignified sip. How odd. Wouldn't have expected it from anyone other than Sir Humphrey Appleby. And the habit of annexing "Sir Humphrey" and "Bernard" to the end of each sentence seemed odd in this context. It never seemed strange at work, but somehow, it now felt...too formal? Bernard's mind immediately jabbed this thought with a bayonet (metaphorically, at least). What did he think this was? It was merely lunch. That was it. Besides, it wasn't as though either of them wanted or expected it to be anything more than lunch. Returning to the conversation, with no outward sign that his thoughts had been perturbed by the alien meanderings that had recently appeared, Bernard's rueful grin reaffixed itself to his visage.

"Bernard, provided you do not favour something utterly tasteless like Mills & Boon, I find it unlikely that your literary taste will be called into question."

Bernard could not hide his grimace. "Good lord no."

"I am relieved to hear it."

Before silence could sneak back into the conversation like an obnoxious infant demanding attention, the younger civil servant took the questioning role momentarily. "And your favourite book?"

The troublesome vocative address had been dropped! Jubilation swept into Bernard's mind for a moment, but beat a hasty retreat to the section reserved for such volatile states. Not by any means hidden, but rather controlled.

"Ah, I would have to think about that one." Naturally, Humphrey could never give a straight answer, even in matters of literature. It was simply because, when asked such a question, his typical response was the expected classical literature, which was not exactly true. He enjoyed and read such titles as Oliver Twist, but his favourite? Hardly. For once, it would be refreshing to be honest. However, he was rather out of practice. "But I could tell you my favourite play, if that would help?" His interlocutor's response was a nod and slight smile, so Humphrey answered the question with apparent ease. "The Clouds or the Winslow Boy."

Bernard's surprise could not be hidden; the first half perhaps predictable, the latter utterly unexpected. An ancient comedy and a tale of mere mortals triumphing over the crown. Then he caught sight of the slight smirk around his boss' mouth, followed by another perfectly matured chuckle.

"I hope this does not call my tastes in theatre into question, Bernard."

Bernard's own amusement won, and the rare occasion of two simultaneous light-hearted chuckles from her majesty's civil servants occurred. "Not in the slightest." It was hardly a trick question, after all. Of course, repeating that would be far too close to parroting for Bernard to feel comfortable doing so.

Food arrived and for a few minutes conversation lulled. For some reason, the presence of food diverted attention far more effectively than any other distraction. Perhaps it should be included in cabinet meetings...

Fortuitously, the typical remarks about the quality of the fare (which was, unsurprisingly, excellent) failed to draw the conversation back to the realm of dreary small talk, and a number of different subjects made their fleeting appearances. Film, opera, sport and, for some reason that neither cared to explain, semi-colons, to name but four. Something about the environment encouraged frankness, largely the negligible chances of anyone possibly overhearing.

As courses were delivered and snatched away, finally resting indefinitely on coffee, Bernard's mind ceased to occupy itself with the oddity of the entire event, and focussed instead upon the enjoyment of Sir Humphrey's company, when not likely to decapitate him for siding with Hacker. Meanwhile, the Head of the Home Civil Service was likewise unperturbed by the minor questions seeking to explain his enjoyment of Bernard's company, and merely revelled in intellectual debates with one who was not a politician. In other words, one with a brain.

"Have you reached a decision, Sir Humphrey?"

With a chuckle, and an ignored inner mutter that protested against the constant mention of his title, Sir Humphrey replaced his coffee cup, partially drained, on the saucer.

"Alas, not yet. I shall, of course, inform you once I have decided on my favourite book."

"Had I realised it would be so problematic a decision, I would not have queried it." The joke was clear, and Sir Humphrey permitted himself a brief laugh. It was probably the wine. Why else would he be chuckling more often than usual? The question was purely rhetorical, naturally.

Prompted by a rare and therefore unexpected moment of honesty, his boss leant forward in a mildly conspiratorial manner. "Ordinarily this requires no thought at all, Bernard. We are civil servants. We tell people what they want to hear, what they expect to hear."

"Ordinarily?"

Sir Humphrey abruptly leant back in his chair, and something is his expression locked or checked itself. "I see no reason to lie to you, Bernard."

Gratified, Bernard hastily fixed his gaze upon his cup with an intense desire to hide the slight redness that seemed to have been shot into his cheeks from an alarmingly accurate air rifle. Several moments of awkward silence passed, and as Sir Humphrey's expression began to reaffirm the mask more securely, once more hiding the jocund and amiable companion, Bernard hastily spurred his vocal chords into action. "Thank you." Resuming his playful grin with only mild difficulty, he forced himself to meet Sir Humphrey's gaze. "Or is it that you just aren't sure what it is I want to hear?"

The mask of professionalism and cold detachment relaxed that miniscule amount once more. "That might be a factor, Bernard."

"If it would be of any assistance, I would have to choose..." Bernard considered briefly, and adopted a mildly ambiguous expression, somewhere on the border between jest and honesty, with a sharp tilt towards the oxymoronic. "Lady Chatterley's Lover."

Unexpected was quite the understatement, but the jest in Bernard's expression prompted doubt in Humphrey's mind. Was he being honest? It seemed likely. And in his defence, it was a witty book, and rather undeserving of its "racy" reputation; things had moved on rather significantly since 1928. D. H. Lawrence did not seem an unworthy favourite. Indeed, not. But surprise remained prominent.

"A witty author." Humphrey stated, and Bernard raised an eyebrow, choking back silent laughter. It was that glance that did it.

The loudest bout of laughter thus far swept them up in its path to freedom, whilst remaining unobtrusive to those few other patrons by virtue of the layout.

Once both had recovered some concept of seriousness, Humphrey found his voice to ask the question that still loitered in his mind. However, before he could do so, Bernard answered it himself. Perhaps mind-reading should be added to the high flier's portfolio.

"In all honesty, it is." With a grin seemingly stuck to his visage, Bernard passed the question back to Humphrey. The elder civil servant was rather off-balanced by his companion's honesty in sharing a book which could potentially make him the subject of ridicule. Of course, both knew that when in the civil service, things must be done in a certain way. At least it was a classic.

Accompanied by his usual air of gravity and sincerity (not the tone used to pledge allegiance to the PM, but of _genuine_ honesty), Sir Humphrey nodded. "And a perfectly respectable choice...If rather an unexpected one."

As an expectant silence continued, Sir Humphrey was saved from the quagmires of decision making by the arrival of the bill. He ignored Bernard's attempts to surreptitiously glance at the receipt, and opted to simply pay it. It had been _his_ choice to invite Bernard. It was normal practice; that was all. Nothing odd about it. **Nothing**.

He likewise waved aside Bernard's thanks, which continued long after the event might have merited. Better to put a stop to that midway down the street than have to enter Whitehall with his colleague persistently thanking him all the way.

Arriving at the fork in the corridor separating the Private Office from the Cabinet Office, Humphrey's genuine smile returned briefly.

"A most enjoyable dinner, Bernard."

"Indeed- Thank-"

"Bernard, this level of gratitude is almost hyperbolic." There was no irritation in the tone. Neither civil servant failed to notice this, but nor did they comment upon it.

Bernard shook his head as the glimmerings of an idea formed in his mind. "Maybe, but you never answered my question."

"I fail to see the connection."

"Sir Humphrey, until you do answer that question, I'll simply have to keep on thanking you."

This more confident aspect of Bernard was amusing, but in his place of work, Humphrey felt less secure, so his own smile was rather restrained. "Bernard, I shall answer your question. I am giving it due thought."

"The matter is under consideration, then?"

"Bernard, it is under _active_ consideration." Sir Humphrey replied, making his way towards his own office. It was pointless bidding him farewell, as he was merely going to collect some papers.

His ears did not miss the faint echoes of a reply as the door to the private office swung shut.

"Then I shall expect to hear within eighteen months!"

Laughter was unprofessional, but once his office door shut behind him, who was going to know?

"_For smiles from reason flow,_

_To brute denied, and are of love the food – _

_Love, not the lowest end of human life."_

_John Milton, Paradise Lost IX, 239-241_

_**A/N: Apologies for the poncy quote; English student.**_


	5. Needlessly Melodramatic

**Rewritten! And about time too, I hear you cry.**

Her Majesty's civil servants are not easily inflamed.

I believe that was the claim. The excuse for government buildings not requiring fire escapes.

Inflamed.

Such a word has other connotations, does it not?

Love, for one.

Civil servants do not tend to fall violently in love.

It has been known, but living a well-schooled, well-heeled, discreet existence does not make such emotions particularly forceful.

Not in my experience-

A lie.

In my experience, they have overthrown my mind in a violent and bloody revolution, conspired to violate every aspect of my normal, acceptable existence- I warrant, it was not so enjoyable...

Perhaps that is the worst aspect of the business - I cannot blame them.

Instead, I can only lie here, lost in my own mind, pondering one memo from my emotions department.

I, Sir Humphrey Appleby, am...emotionally attached to Bernard.

* * *

It could be denied- Lady Appleby was looking well. Very well, in fact. Better than she had in years. An entirely new wardrobe, in fact.

It was not for Sir Humphrey's benefit, of course. The two had never been close, and she had not been certain about marrying him in the first place. He had asked, she had agreed, and neither had quite understood where to go from there.

Money had mattered. Stability had mattered. Status had mattered.

Humphrey had been described as a "high-flier". He was destined for a knighthood, a hefty salary and a certain future.

She had made a mistake.

He had miscalculated.

Lady Appleby paused at the top of the stairs, a small bundle of clothes in her arms, as her husband entered the hall.

"Humphrey."

He turned, her appearance meriting a second glance. "What is the occasion?"

"Humphrey, we both knew this was inevitable. We both need something more than this."

Was this a verbal 'Dear John' letter? For once, Sir Humphrey was unable to formulate a response.

"Goodbye, Humphrey."

A pause, and Sir Humphrey's courtesy salvaged his paralysed vocal cords for a brief croak of farewell.

"Take care."

"And you."

There seemed to be nothing else to say. Lady Appleby vanished from view, and the sounds of suitcases could be clearly heard.

Sir Humphrey Appleby was overtaken by a state of paralysis. What would his colleagues say? Left by his wife. Marital unrest. These were flaws for politicians to battle with! In an effort to avoid a day at the mercy of shock, his mind cast the entire conversation into the depths of his mind, allowing it to drift apart and recede into faint whispers, suspending the fact.

The shock could be postponed. He was master of his own thoughts, was he not?

Sir Humphrey Appleby picked up his briefcase and left the house. He could not affect much emotional distress, other than mild guilt. It was, as she had said, inevitable.

* * *

Driving was a useful activity; it required the entire brain. Looking in mirrors, switching gears, co-ordinating his feet on the pedals, gauging speeds...

Somehow, he missed the main road. It was no matter- he knew the side streets well enough, but it was most unsettling.

As if his day was, in fact, some sort of disturbed fiction, a familiar figure appeared at the side of the road.

Bernard was pushing at his car, futility clear on his features. The car had always been incredibly uncooperative and it appeared that the frost had finally done it in; it _would_ do on the day of the Prime Minister's return. Of course. It _would_ be a day that really _hinged_ upon punctuality.

"Bernard?"

Bernard's gaze flickered to the car paused at the end of his drive. A flush crept over his face, and his foot immediately endeavoured to look as though it had not been abusing a car in any way, shape or form. That would be undignified.

"Sir Humphrey. I er- that is, my car is reluctant to- well, work."

Amused in spite of himself, Sir Humphrey chuckled. "Would you care for a lift, Bernard?"

The Prime Minister's Principal Private Secretary stammered his thanks, darting into the front seat with his briefcase balanced on his knees. Somehow, his presence acted as some sort of salve to Humphrey's stunned mental state. The thoughts which had come to frustrate him now liberated the cogs of his mind into a more malleable, dextrous state. Perhaps a disturbing phenomenon, but whilst it aided his intentional memory lapse, Sir Humphrey would not query it.

Bernard began to form possible sentences in his mind, but each sounded dismal, banal, tedious. What topic of conversation could he broach safely? In close proximity to Sir Humphrey, he found that his mind could scarcely be trusted to remain focused on reality, let alone form the perfect words to end this increasingly awkward silence.

"Would you like the radio on, Bernard?" The words were devoid of emotion, and Bernard's possible topics of conversation sank miserably back into the abyss of fantasy.

"Erm- I don't mind."

Sir Humphrey jabbed at it without glancing from the road. The not-quite-dulcet tones of Rick Astley bellowed from the machine which seemed far too small to create such noise.

_Never gunna give you up, Never gunna let you down..._

Both civil servants nearly jumped out of their skins, and an oncoming taxi honked loudly as Sir Humphrey's control slipped for a second, resulting in a slight veering.

Unable to look away from the road, Sir Humphrey poked the machine again, merely causing the volume to increase to unparalleled heights of ear-related agony. Bernard could not avoid the laughter than escaped him, although it was swallowed by the cacophony of noise.

"For God's sake Bernard, turn it off!" Sir Humphrey had to shout to make himself heard, and his own hand scrabbled for the switch just as Bernard's located it. The music vanished, and an entirely different jolt prompted them to jump as their hands brushed.

Electric shock. Obviously. What else could it be? Neither of them dared to tear their eyes from the road, and hands swiftly returned to their owners.

"Perhaps we should continue this journey without the radio, Sir Humphrey." Bernard's grin returned, and as if he could sense it, Sir Humphrey formed one in response.

"Indeed, Bernard."

Reluctant to return to an awkward silence, Bernard's voice resurfaced. "I understand the Prime Minister will return today, Sir Humphrey."

"Indeed, Bernard." Humphrey silently chastised himself for his unimaginative response, and cleared his throat quietly. "Unfortunate that his 'mild' flu was not of a longer duration."

"For the good of the country, Sir Humphrey?"

Sir Humphrey paused for a moment to consider. If he was honest, that was not his real cause for irritation at Jim's early return. However, as a civil servant, honesty was a luxury. "Naturally, Bernard."

A slight disappointment welled in Bernard's mind, but he ignored it as best as he could. "I expect we shall have to keep him up to date with the- erm, incident which occurred in his absence."

"We did telephone him, Bernard. What more could he possibly need?"

"An explanation he can understand?" Bernard suppressed a chuckle.

"Hm." Humphrey made a noise of contempt, and both civil servants relaxed sufficiently to laugh. "Leave it to me, Bernard."

Attaching his courage firmly to the metaphorical sticking-post, Bernard opened his mouth again. "Sir Humphrey, I don't think I adequately thanked you-"

"Bernard, your survival is quite sufficient without the addition of gratitude."

He had not intended to say that.

It had skipped past his internal checks undetected, and blurted itself into the world without so much as a cursory glance to reason or dignity. Perhaps he was more unsettled than he had suspected.

* * *

Looking back, that ought to have been a decent clue.

Indeed, it was.

Perhaps it was only a matter of time before Bernard slotted the truth together.

He might already have done so.

Sir Humphrey's room seemed to waver before him, and he swiftly accused his subconscious of a tendency towards the melodramatic. It was absurd. No difference had been detected at the end of the day, in any case. Perhaps this would all pass?

It did not escape Sir Humphrey's notice that he was now, thanks to his wife's departure, free to-

No.

Impossible.

Ludicrous.

Sir Humphrey closed his eyes once more, fading back into memory.

* * *

Bernard could not recall a time when he had yearned for and yet dreaded the end of the day more.

Sir Humphrey had offered him a lift home; that was all it was. Nothing more.

Something he had said, however...But it was probably nothing.

Rising from his desk, Bernard slid some paperwork into his briefcase, locked up the desk and left the Private Office.

Six o' clock. Big Ben's chimes rang across the car park, and Bernard broke into a slight jog to catch up with his boss just as he neared the car.

"Sir Humphrey."

"Bernard."

Their conversations always seemed so riddled with...well, just riddled. Riddled and nervous on Bernard's part. On Sir Humphrey's, they were almost dangerous. A weakness, a chink in his otherwise impenetrable facade.

How either could derive such enjoyment from them was bizarre, but inescapably fact.

"The PM seemed his usual self today." Bernard remarked, closing the car door and narrowly missing his finger in the process.

Sir Humphrey made a non-committal noise. "We shall have to suffer it as best we can, Bernard."

"Indeed, Sir Humphrey." Bernard smirked. "I- erm, I don't suppose you have reached a decision about your favourite book?"

The older civil servant smirked. "Not yet, Bernard. I assure you, it is a top priority."

"At the initial consultation stage?"

"Very much so. Due a second meeting forthwith."

Lingering at the traffic lights, Sir Humphrey glanced across and finally met Bernard's gaze. The laugh that resulted was the most natural that Bernard had ever heard from his boss.

"If I can be of any assistance..."

"Thank you Bernard, but I shall have to investigate my bookcase." Sir Humphrey paused. He had not been looking forward to returning to an empty house. Why shouldn't he invite Bernard for an hour or so? It was perhaps ten minutes in a car. Not a large detour. The arguments in favour celebrated their victory and he glanced back to his colleague. "However, if you have no pressing engagements, you assistance might be invaluable."

Bernard's reply was interrupted by the blare of a car horn. "The lights, Sir Humphrey!"

Face flushed, his boss pulled away from the lights, letting a frustrated car sweep past. Sir Humphrey's blazing red face seemed so incongruous to Bernard that he was unable to stop silently chortling for a good few minutes. "I would be delighted."

* * *

It transpired that Sir Humphrey's bookcase was more of a library.

"It is, essentially, one bookcase." Sir Humphrey shrugged. "I feel no compulsion to describe it as anything more grandiose."

Bernard was unsure where to start, confronted with three imposing walls of books, and looked to Sir Humphrey. His boss waved a hand airily at the left hand side. "These are plays. We can ignore most of those. And the lower half of that case is purely for show. That leaves us the central case and four shelves from the right-hand one."

Bernard laughed. "Oh, simplicity itself. Where should we start?"

"I do not mind."

"They're your books."

"I fail to see why that is of relevance."

"Therefore, you must decide."

"The logic is questionable, but as you insist, very well, Bernard. Let's start from this side."

A significant amount of time later, the choices had narrowed to about seven shelves. "So _Moby Dick_ is to be struck from the records?"

"Certainly."

Sir Humphrey began to climb the dark wood stepladder, reaching for the highest shelf. "I think this may be the ke-ah!"

Bernard almost crashed into the table in his rush to grab the base of the stepladder, swaying rather dangerously.

"What's the matter with it?" Sir Humphrey asked in a rather breathless voice, maintaining his balance with some difficulty.

"It's closing back up!" Bernard's voice took on a note of alarm, and Humphrey remained absolutely motionless as his colleague kicked the back legs into the correct position, his foot blocking their attempts to snap shut.

Sir Humphrey took a tentative step downwards, and a hand closed around his upper arm, holding him upright as the steps shook. "Are you alright, Sir Humphrey?"

"Quite, thank you Bernard." Sir Humphrey narrowly stopped himself from sighing with relief. "I think we had better call it a day for now."

Bernard nodded. "Are you quite sure-"

"I am _fine_, Bernard. It was only a faulty stepladder."

The younger man flushed slightly, and Sir Humphrey made an effort to soften his tone. For no particular reason, of course. These excuses were wearing thin.

Bernard glanced at his watch, and bit his lip slightly, a sign of nervousness. Eight o'clock. He was absolutely starving, and couldn't trespass on Sir Humphrey's hospitality for food.

"Got somewhere to be, Bernard?"

"Oh- no Sir Humphrey, but I- ought to be going soon."

Any slight twinge of disappointment was swiftly silenced, and Sir Humphrey smiled. "Of course. Come along, Bernard."

* * *

Sir Humphrey's eyes opened.

His present attachment seemed irrevocable. Unwise, stupid even, but unavoidable.

Why, today had been a day for surprises.

Finally hauling himself from his bed, he passed the empty room next to his own without so much as a glance, and poured himself a double scotch.

The silence of his house seemed suddenly oppressive, but it was not his wife's laugh that he yearned to hear, but a much more masculine chuckle.

At least, he mused, the confusion was gone.

* * *

Bernard seemed unable to move from his armchair near the window, through which he had seen Sir Humphrey drive away. That was possibly an hour ago.

Time did not appear to be his friend at present. However, it might be said that Sir Humphrey was. Sir Humphrey, a friend.

Elation was the predominant emotion for a moment, until dread connected and froze him in place. He was not very good at hiding his emotion; of course, he'd always known he would have to improve that.

His head rested against the window pane; the chill seemed to pass straight into his brain.

Too full of emotion to move. Too full of emotion to hide it. Too full of emotion to care.

He was, essentially, doomed.

And with that revelation, he jerked his head from the cold glass. If it was only a matter of time, he was going to make the most of it. After that, it could only be the Vehicle Licensing Centre in Swansea.

How optimistic.


	6. Betwixt the Devil and the Other One

_**Rewritten.**_

"Bernard?"

"Yes, Prime Minister?"

Hacker still beamed at the sound of his title. Finally, he had achieved what everyone had thought impossible. He had taken up the reins of an entire country, scoured the highest heights of politics and banished Basil bloody Corbett to Northern Ireland. Now, he was the man with the largest elbows.

"I suspect, Bernard, that Humphrey has something up his sleeve."

Biting back the urge to comment upon the size of Humphrey's sleeves, Bernard shifted his gaze from the brown folder before him, eyes lingering on the Prime Minister's face only for the briefest of instants. "Um, surely not, Prime Minister."

Hacker's fingers toyed unconsciously with his glasses before reaching for a handkerchief to give their actions more purpose. "Do you suppose I am paranoid for suspecting something is amiss when our previously loquacious friend is...well, almost brief?" The absence of a particularly lengthy and unintelligible speech on the subjects of the morning's cabinet meeting had been surreal. In fact, Hacker had felt obliged to pinch himself partway through, to check it was not a dream. Whatever could have thrown his cabinet secretary into such distraction was clearly of incredible, if inestimable, import. And who better to sniff out the solution than Bernard?

"I'm sure it's nothing of great importance or-" As expected, Bernard's lies were dismissed. Worth a try, but really implausible. With Sir Humphrey's previous claims regarding "need to know", he couldn't really blame Hacker for being a tad wary. Such was his occupation- seeing two sides of a problem, and being unable to commit to either.

"Perhaps not, but don't you think he seemed a bit...out of sorts in this morning's meeting?" Hacker stopped polishing his glasses and leant forward slightly, replacing them on his nose and peering at Bernard with a stare which he considered dignified, but which looked like a squint to most bystanders.

"Well, I...that is I, er-" Bernard resisted the impulse to flinch, colliding once again with a situation which entailed his dual loyalties being tested to the limit. It was like an absurd balancing act, really, playing to whims of Jim if they seemed to help the country, then fighting Sir Humphrey's corner for the sake of his career. However, it was not solely his career which jerked him towards his boss' point of view at present.

"Bernard, this may be of critical importance." Hacker adopted his most forceful expression. If Sir Humphrey was out of sorts, it was likely that the civil servant knew something that he didn't. This territory was familiar; to be ignorant was a price he was unwilling to pay _again, _after all that hassle with the Solihull project and trade unionist blackmailing him. Whatever it might be, he had the right to know, and the need to know. Purely to know whether or not he needed to know it, of course. It might have appeared to one able to pry into his thoughts and comment upon them, that he and Sir Humphrey were rather more alike in this than either would care to admit. "And as my Principal Private Secretary, I'm sure you will be able to assist me."

Bernard squirmed inwardly. Prying into Sir Humphrey's business did not seem...well, pleasant. Besides, he had enough trouble endeavouring not to blush or stammer in the man's company; combining that with awkward prying did not seem to be a smart move. Perhaps denial _was_ the best response to an utterly irrational and ill-fated crush.

"How so, Prime Minister?" The question was tentative, and Hacker's mind threw up some queries about Bernard's nervousness, but put it down to his disposition, which had always seemed to be inclined in such a direction.

Steepling his fingers and resting his elbows on the table, Prime Minister James Hacker retained his expression of grave importance, silently elated at the prospect of sending someone on a mission which was, essentially, spying.

Indeed, spying on Humphrey would probably be of more use than spying on the Russians.

"Bernard, you will go to see Sir Humphrey, and find out what the problem is. Okay?" Without waiting for an answer, he adjusted his glasses and resumed his reading.

"Well, I-"

"The question was purely rhetorical Bernard."

For once, Bernard ignored this, and babbled frantically, hoping to hit upon a watertight reason for not going. "Er- Well, Prime Minister, I- I have no pretext-"

"For heaven's sake Bernard, find one! Do I have to think of everything?" Hacker waved his hand dismissively, but Bernard did not move. "What's the devil's the matter Bernard?"

"I- I'm not sure it's- er, well, I...I'm not sure he'd tell me-"

Sighing, Hacker leant back in his chair. "It is better to have tried and failed than have failed to try."

"But the result's the same."

Hacker's head swivelled again in Bernard's direction. Hastily, the civil servant stammered out an explanation. "I'm sorry Prime Minister- I er, was completing the quote."

The Prime Minister raised an eyebrow. "Kindly get on with your mission, Bernard."

"Mission, Prime Minister?"

Hacker smirked, and Bernard's hopes of arguing dissolved completely. Detecting his victory, Jim returned to his papers, not even glancing up as the door swung shut behind the civil servant.

* * *

Sir Humphrey's mood was, in his opinion, unduly affected. At least it was unlikely that anyone would notice his slight shift towards the melancholy, and even less likely that any civil servant would ask a prying question; that would suggest friendship, rather than work-related amiability. Perhaps he might count Arnold as a friend; they'd been at university together, gone into the Service together... Yes. Perhaps Arnold was a friend. They'd certainly known each other for long enough.

As for Bernard, he was...well, closer to a friend than Arnold was, all things considered. Humphrey could not quite picture himself phoning Arnold to discuss favourite books, and then spending the evening in a study of his library.

Regardless, his mind reprimanded him, he was far more affected by the absence of his estranged wife than seemed reasonable. Was it the small things, such as company at breakfast and dinner, that he missed? Arguably, they had spent little time together outside of that, and it was true that she would be happier elsewhere.

Somewhere, at the back of his mind, a muttering about failure surfaced.

He had done what he was meant to do, being of an academic tilt and with a fondness for Classics; he had gone to Oxford, he had received a first, he had married a sensible, respectable woman, had risen to the top of the civil service and settled into a respectable neighbourhood.

If someone could have informed his twenty-something year old self that marriage took more than merely living in the same house, it would have been of invaluable assistance.

Humphrey was distracted from his thoughts by the soft chime of a grandfather clock outside his office. Whilst the doors were thick, they were not entirely soundproof. He had been sat, musing aimlessly, for over half an hour.

Such a state was unacceptable.

He sifted through the small pile of papers in front of him, eyes straying vaguely over the agenda for the next Cabinet meeting and QUANGO appointment lists. A thud awakened him to his own carelessness, as the small photograph placed in a discreet corner of his desk (not that any corner of a desk belonging to Sir Humphrey Appleby would dare to be indiscreet) toppled over.

Hm. It seemed rather pointless now. It had been there for appearances' sake, to concede to social convention, to placate his conscience, even? The reasoning hardly mattered.

The frame was surprisingly heavy in his hand, and the lamp on his desk obscured the photo entirely as the glass was tinged and steadily overcome by the orange glow. Detachment is a common defence mechanism, but he had not previously encountered a state of such complete apathy. Sir Humphrey was struck dumb, unable to react, or unwilling, and he could not separate the two.

A disk, no, a square, spun through the air, glittering silver and spinning, flashes of orange spinning over and over, alternating with a black felt-like backing. It was all immaterial.

"Sir Humphr-"

Bernard's gaze slid from the door handle to his boss' face. The trajectory, an inevitable arc, flickered across both countenances, but neither moved. Blood and pain and gashes shot into both imaginations, just as the metal frame connected with the opposite wall.

The door swung shut.

Bernard hadn't even noticed his hand leaving the handle.

Hastily, Bernard's stare broke, and darted instead to the picture now sprawled on the carpeted floor at the foot of the wall to his right. A fairly prominent dent in this wall was just visible, and the thought that such a dent might well have been in his forehead at that moment made Bernard distinctly uncomfortable.

"Bernard- I-" Sir Humphrey shook himself back into wakefulness, and rose from his desk. "I don't know what came over me. I had no idea-"

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-" Bernard flushed, every instinct that had been delayed in the previous moment now rushing back to compound his embarrassment. Hoping to alleviate the urge to run which seemed on the brink of overpowering his limbs, he stooped to pick up the photograph, catching sight of the subject as he handed it back to his boss, approaching rather swiftly from the desk.

"No, Bernard." Humphrey sighed, almost imperceptibly, as he accepted the photograph and placed it carefully (but the wrong way up) on his desk.

Still flushing furiously, Bernard fixed his gaze on the carpet. As far as he could tell, he hadn't done anything particularly awful, but his instincts urged him towards an apology for failing to knock loudly enough – clearly, Sir Humphrey hadn't heard him.

"Are you alright, Bernard?" Humphrey's eyes roved over Bernard's visage, seeking out any hint of pain, and finding none. The other man nodded, and the considerable concern which had been spinning a web of guilt in his chest checked its progress. "I'm...sorry, Bernard. I- am not quite myself today. I did not hear you..." Exasperated at what he saw as his own failing, Humphrey passed a hand across his forehead in a gesture of fatigue, although his was of the mental variety, rather than actual sleep-deprivation.

Screwing his courage to the metaphorical sticking-post, Bernard glanced across at Humphrey. As his boss was no longer looking at him, he felt free to attempt to absorb as much information as he could from the man's expression. Perhaps, at some point, there would be a perfect moment to- Not now.

"Erm, Sir Humphrey- might- I mean, are you...that is, is there anything I can do?"

Sir Humphrey, touched, but unwilling to admit it, chuckled dryly. "There is not anything I can ask of you, Bernard." Not quite an answer, and Bernard did not miss this. When one is a civil servant, one does not miss the slight tweaks and twists of language which can save one from grave embarrassment or render politicians particularly bemused. "Is there anything I can do for you, Bernard? I would assume so, given your visit." Humphrey crossed to a pair of comfortable armchairs and gestured for his colleague to take the other.

"Erm- I...That is, the Prime Minister sent me."

Slight disappointment struck Humphrey's mind, but Bernard's face was tilted to the side and cast into the shade, so he could not analyse his expression. Not that he needed to, of course. He had already decided that, whilst Bernard might eventually see him as a friend, it was an impossibility that his new-found affections (if one could call them that) would be returned. The complexities of power structures rather prohibited it. It would likely lead to inequality or an undue degree of wariness. "And what did our great and glorious master wish of me?"

"Well, erm- it's..." An idea struck Bernard, and his expression lit up as though this idiom were literal. "Sir Humphrey, might I ask you a hypothetical question?"

_Always, Bernard._ "Of course."

The younger civil servant fiddled slightly, as his mind attempted to phrase the question perfectly, his fingers twisting around one another and intertwining into a jumbled mess.

"Sherry, Bernard?"

Despite the apparently early hour, Bernard accepted without hesitation. Well, without any more hesitation than usual.

"You were saying?"

"Ah. Yes." Bernard's blush was still visible in the dim light, and he noticed, or thought he caught a glimpse of a fond smile on his boss' face, if only for a moment. Fanciful, of course.

"If a hypothetical Prime Minister were to, as it were, believe that his hypothetical Cabinet secretary was being rather...well, elusive, or um, seeming out of sorts, and asked his hypothetical Principal Private Secretary to investigate and report back, thinking that this change in mood might be the result of a hypothetical piece of hypothetical information being, hypothetically, kept from him...What should the Principal Private Secretary do...hypothetically?"

"Let us drop the hypothetical for a moment, Bernard." Sir Humphrey did not reply at once, swirling the drink in his hand slightly and taking a sip. "It is not a matter to concern the Prime Minister." With practiced ease, he replaced his glass on a side table without the chinking noise that Bernard could not help but make.

Bernard hesitated, unsure whether or not Humphrey had any more to say, and shifted slightly on his chair.

"As a-" Sir Humphrey hesitated, and a faint twinge of surprise glanced up Bernard's spine. Whatever was affecting his boss was clearly a grave upheaval indeed.

"As a friend, Bernard-" Bernard's face split into a grin, without his noticing, and he was inclined to believe that his entire diaphragm became a good stone lighter, "I feel I can trust you to keep this information to yourself. My wife, Bernard, has decided that it is time for us to go our separate ways and, to that end, has travelled to America." Sir Humphrey swallowed the remainder of his drink, and averted his gaze from his colleague. "It is, frankly, more a matter of upheaval than loss. But it is not the Prime Minister's concern."

"Indeed, not. I- I am sorry, Sir Humphrey."

"Don't apologise Bernard." Sir Humphrey rose, the trace of a smile on his face. "You need not apologise to me for my own mistakes."

Bernard had no answer for that, and after a few minutes of awkward silence, he finished his drink and got to his feet. "I- I had better get back."

"Send my best to our lord and master, Bernard." Humphrey opened the door for his...friend, and closed it briskly.

As the handle clicked back into place, the full impact of his words hit him.

Sir Humphrey Appleby, no doubt manipulated by some emotion of- well, he wasn't entirely sure what to call it at present – had bared his personal life to a colleague. A junior colleague. A junior colleague under obligation to report back to the Prime Minister, who would surely make his life impossible with this information.

Had he taken leave of his senses?

* * *

Sir Humphrey's steps were silenced by the thick carpet as he struggled not to run. Keeping his pace steady, if faster than usual, he strode purposefully to the door of the Prime Minister's office. As his hand reached for the handle, he heard one sentence from within, very clearly indeed.

"No, Prime Minister."

* * *

"What did you say, Bernard?" Hacker removed his glasses from his nose with a swift flick of the wrist.

"I said no, Prime Minister." Bernard shifted his weight from side to side and readjusted the heavy diary under his left arm.

Hacker leant forward, incredulous tones now diffused with irritation. "Now Bernard, I need to know what Humphrey is up to!"

"With respect, Prime Minister, you do not."

Sir Humphrey's eyes widened, and he pressed his ear flat against the door, shock rippling through him.

"Bernard! What's got into you?"

Bernard shuffled again, looking and indeed feeling incredibly uncomfortable. It was a private confidence. Sir Humphrey had _trusted_ him, more than anyone else, and just that thought made any irritation bearable at present.

He was his friend.

A beautiful word, indeed.

"Nothing, Prime Minister. I merely- that is, I know that you feel that you need to know, but now that I know that you don't need to know, and it's really not a matter of need to know and pertains in no way to the kind of things which, I agree, you need to know, as it's not-"

"Bernard."

"Sorry, Prime Minister."

"You really won't tell me?"

"It's- It's a matter of confidence, Prime Minister."

Hacker drew himself up to his full height and fixed Bernard with a stare which might be likened to steel. "I have _the highest_ clearance."

"Indeed you do, Prime Minister, but it's not- It's a personal matter."

"And you, Bernard, are my Principal _Private_ Secretary."

"Indeed, Prime Minister, but it is not a matter of state-"

"Bernard." The word was almost a bark, and Bernard obediently closed his mouth. "Are you trying to tell me that this is none of my business? That whatever has happened is purely related to Sir Humphrey's personal life?"

The hesitation stretched on for a few seconds, and Sir Humphrey strained to listen. This ability to hear through doors probably ought to be remedied, with thicker, more security-conscious doors, but for the moment, it was serving his purpose very well indeed.

"Yes, Prime Minister."

Hacker's gaze softened, and he nodded. "Very well, Bernard. I shall trust your judgement, for now. But if this proves to be important, you'll be in the vehicle licensing centre in Swansea before you know it."

A keen ear might have detected a snort of contempt.

A politician, reprimand a civil servant?

Oh, don't be absurd.


	7. Clear As Mud

_**A/N: Rewritten**_

Press coverage and political statements never do justice to the amount of elbow jabs and general jostling that Principal Private Secretaries to the Prime Minister must endure.

Naturally, Sir Humphrey never suffered at the receiving end of these hustling crowds; his air of command was far too prominent to permit such a thing.

Bernard was convinced that his own air of importance was, alas, at a loss.

He was attempting to enter the largest party in an embassy for about twenty years, all to celebrate a visiting PM's birthday. The whole thing seemed absurd.

The press had turned up, of course. It was all about foreign relations this week. Some row blowing up, apparently. The F.O. was delighted.

Lovely shots of Annie and Jim Hacker entering the embassy, smiling and shaking hands with various other important persons; the occasional, dignified profile of Sir Humphrey Appleby edging into the shots; visiting dignitaries grinning, waving, laughing; presspersons stamping on one another's feet to get nearer to the barrier, aiming for perfect shots; perhaps the odd blur of Bernard.

That wasn't what perturbed him; the press were an irrelevance to the civil service. But the elbows and unwieldy cameras were quite unnecessary.

Edging to the left in an attempt to avoid the mob of photographers on the other side of the path, Bernard was once again on the receiving end of the press' indomitable vehemence.

A camera swung out of the fence to the side of him, flailing in an attempt to get a clear picture of the Foreign Secretary, and Bernard was forced to duck.

Undignified did not even begin to cover it. Flushing a furious red, Bernard once more attempted to move into the embassy. A gentle pressure above his left elbow prompted a backwards glance, and his shame was branded even more fiercely on his visage.

Sir Humphrey smoothly made his way through the gaggle of deliberately malingering politicians without so much as a step out of place. To Bernard, it was rather similar to being hauled from a whirlpool onto a raft.

His boss did not let go until they had entered the embassy.

"Ah! Humphrey, Bernard!" The Prime Minister waved them over, already brandishing a glass of particularly fine champagne. Annie, by his side, eyed it with an expression of mild dread; the Prime Minister was not the wisest of drinkers.

"Good evening, Prime Minister." Sir Humphrey's polished tones glided across the room, every syllable as silk.

Annie smiled at Bernard, who made an effort to drain the blood from his face; it was so swift to be summoned when embarrassment struck, and so slow to fade when it needed to.

"Good evening." Bernard accepted a glass of champagne, and endeavoured to look interested in the Prime Minister's attempts to name everyone in the room.

"That man with the cravat is- he's um, Gerard something or other- you remember, Annie? He was at the drinkies-do last Thursday...There's the Spanish Deputy PM, Isadora something...Greg Sawyer, is it?"

"Sidney, Prime Minister."

"Sidney Sawyer? What a stupid name- then next to him is..."

Annie exchanged a bored glance with Bernard. He was by far her favourite civil servant; perhaps that was because he didn't really _act_ like one at all.

"Wasn't that mob of photographers simply ghastly? I had to almost drag Jim away; the noise was doing my head in."

Bernard nodded fervently, and deliberately avoided Sir Humphrey's gaze. "Yes- they're quite...overbearing."

"They can smell a story, I suppose." Annie sighed. "I can't say that I see anything exciting happening any time soon."

"Maybe they're hoping the PM will get drunk." Bernard remarked, lowering his voice unnecessarily; Hacker was too concerned with naming the 'six-foot gent with the silly shoes' to notice.

Annie laughed. "I, for one, am not. It is most peculiar to hear my Jim referred to as the Prime Minister. It seems quite absurd."

Sir Humphrey's voice surfaced in the surrounding hubbub. "Prime Minister, wouldn't it be wise to give the German chancellor your gift now, while he is unoccupied?" And while Hacker's still sober, Bernard remarked, within the privacy of his own mind.

Hacker glanced across to verify that the chap in question was unoccupied, and hastily assumed his mask of statesmanship. "Oh, alright. Come on Annie."

With another roll of her eyes, Annie disappeared into the crowd with her husband. Bernard glanced briefly at his watch.

"Counting down, Bernard?"

Bernard managed to repress the instinctive jump at the familiar voice, and the quiet, almost private, chuckle that followed it.

"What time is it, Bernard?"

"Ten past seven, Sir Humphrey."

"Alas." His boss smiled grimly. "It may be another fifty minutes before they are all adequately drunk to not notice our absence."

Startled, Bernard finally shifted his gaze to his boss' face, stately and serene, but with a faint sneer of contempt playing out at the sight of the surrounding mob. "I thought we would- I mean, the PM- don't we have to wait for him?"

"You can if you'd like to, Bernard, but I for one have never found that politicians have anything much worth saying, inebriated or otherwise."

Bernard's laugh died in his throat as the figure of Frank, Permanent Undersecretary to the Treasury, broke through the crowd, a shark-like grin on his face. "Ah, I'd hoped I would get the chance to talk to you, Humpy."

"Frank." Sir Humphrey's reply was cordial, but his eyes...well, if looks could kill, and if that expression were not so overused, it would be damnably apt.

Bernard remained silent, temporarily ignored by both of them, or so he believed.

"Keeps them happy, at least." Frank nodded to the politicians, hovering near Jim but not quite daring to approach. "I always think it must be intolerable for their partners, constantly putting work before family."

Humphrey's jaw tightened; Frank's grin widened. It was typical of Frank to brandish a "failure" in front of him like this. In front of Bernard too, who remained where he was, grimacing silently. Irate, firstly at the presumption of Frank, secondly at his blatant disregard for Bernard (a concern Humphrey was not prepared to ever admit) and thirdly at his own heightened sense of embarrassment, which he chose to attribute to the public location rather than any specific bystander, Humphrey attempted a response without breaking the expression of impassivity on his face.

"Really Frank?"It was more like a nip than a word, ground out between locked teeth.

Frank took a step nearer. "All very _noble_ of course...But it seems rather a..._shame_." Sir Humphrey paled, and immediately raged at himself for showing even the slightest weakness, but could devise no response, as his past humiliation regarding The Key burned through his mind, diverting his retorts to silent shame. The thought of Hacker having a weapon to use against him...Another skeleton in his cupboard- It was intolerable.

"Martyrs to the end. _Nothing_ is too great a sacrifice."

It might have sounded casual to an ignorant bystander, but Bernard's civil service career had made him an expert in subtext and this was, it appeared, a no-holds-barred battle of wills. Frank could destroy, or at least deplete, Humphrey's power over Hacker. His power over everything. A failed marriage was not usually a skeleton in the cupboard, but the humiliation that came with it...Politicians in particular would take every opportunity to revel in the fallibility of their civil servant.

Making an effort to strike an assertive note with his voice and adjusting his stance slightly, Bernard cleared his throat. "Surely the first duty of everyone is to his country, and the public good, and as long as those two remain undamaged, his soundness ought not to be questioned."

Despite his front of boldness, Bernard had not felt truly aggressive until Frank turned his head to glare with an inordinate amount of loathing and disdain. Bernard's shoulders squared of their own accord, and his own fury immediately contorted his expression to match it. Sir Humphrey's perception seemed to break into shards as he saw his colleague turn from an awkward and slightly nervous individual to his protector, facing up to his 'superior' without a care.

Frank's voice seemed liable to cause an ice age. Sir Humphrey still could not find his own.

"Excuse me, this is a private conversation."

"As was the one which you interrupted."

By some great mercy, Annie chose that moment to reappear. "Ah, Sir Humphrey, Bernard, my husband would like a word; he's on that terrace thing at the back. Do excuse us." She added, almost as an afterthought to Frank, who nodded, still attempting to impale Bernard with his gaze alone.

Bernard yet again found himself being steered through the crowd by the elbow, and out into the night air. "Mrs Hacker, there's no one here."

She directed her gaze towards Humphrey, who had receded into the darkness at one side. "You're a civil servant who has retained his sense of morality, Bernard. Can't have you going to jail for ripping Frank's throat out- not yet, anyway."

"Oh. I mean, thank you. It was just-"

"No need to explain, Bernard; Dorothy and I have always considered him an odious creature."

With that, she vanished, as swiftly as she had appeared.

Sir Humphrey saw Mrs Hacker disappear back into the embassy in the corner of his eye, but could not seem to summon the presence of mind to form a sentence yet. Bernard had defended him, when he could not manage to do so himself. The awkward, quiet high-flier had chosen to be loyal to him at the risk of his future career; Sir Frank was no useless non-entity, it must be said. Seating himself upon a bench at one side- a rather cold, stone, cumbersome thing, but better than standing, Sir Humphrey's gaze fixed upon Bernard, trying to fathom what could have caused such a transformation, or how he had taken so long to notice.

"That was very foolish."

Bernard paused, contemplating a response, and finding that he, this time, was stuck for words. He knew what he wished to say, naturally, but that would be both inane and inappropriate. A shrug was visible in the pale luminescence coating his back and shoulders as he finally met his boss' gaze. "...Erm, do you mind if I join you?"

"Please."

Hidden largely by shade, Bernard tried to focus upon anything other than the fact that his enigmatic, aloof and ingenious boss was a few inches away, in a dark secluded location. It seemed far too cliché, and he was most certainly _not_ going to think about it. At all. Not even remotely.

Damn.

"Bernard, that was incredibly foolish. You must see that." There was no trace of irritation in Humphrey's tone, but rather the closest to a plea that he had ever been. An overwhelming confusion, a plea for explanation, which Bernard was almost ready to risk.

"I do see it- I mean, I did." Bernard's voice wavered slightly; a sign of agitation.

"What possessed you?"

A slight pang of irritation rose in Bernard's chest. Did being a civil servant deprive him of the chance to ever display loyalty? "Would you rather I had let him insult you?"

"Perhaps. It would certainly have helped your prospects."

"Perhaps."

Raising an eyebrow at Bernard's apparent apathy, a pointless gesture given the dimly-lit area, Sir Humphrey averted his gaze. "You are...quite the individual, Bernard."

"His behaviour was inappropriate."

"So you acted out of chivalry?" The Cabinet Secretary suppressed all emotion, so that his voice remained a neutral blur, whilst surprise, flattery and a slight embarrassment dominated the battlefield of his mind.

There was silence from the younger man.

"Bernard?"

"I can't explain."

Sir Humphrey hesitated before continuing in a lighter, deliberately casual voice. "I believe I still have some bookcases that need evaluating." Without thinking, he raised a hand and brought it to rest on Bernard's shoulder, as he had done on previous occasions. He did not notice a slight trembling; it was a cold evening.

Humour breathed back into Bernard's voice. "I would be delighted to be of assistance." Beat. "We'll have to give them another hour."

Moonlight flashed on a watch face.

"Make it half an hour."

_**YMYMYMYMYMYM**_

"Sir Humphrey-"

"The title is unnecessary Bernard." The older man glanced over his shoulder, a faint smile on his face. "Unless you wish to be referred to as Prime Minister's Principal Private Secretary for the remainder of the evening."

"Technically, that's a job title rather than an honour-"

"No need to quibble, Bernard."

Bernard chuckled; Humphrey's voice betrayed a quiet regalement. It might appear, all things considered, in the final analysis, that they were friends. How remarkable.

"Larkin?"

"You object to Larkin, Bernard?"

A shrug was the only response.

"I assume that's a yes." Humphrey placed two glasses of sherry on the coffee table with a soft clink, a small island equidistant from a two curved harbours of dark green upholstery on legs, and promptly sank into one of them. "Might one ask why?"

"He's...rather depressing." Bernard's hesitation seemed to have relaxed sufficiently to enable him to sit down without being invited, and Humphrey's mind permitted itself a moment of smugness.

"I can't deny that." Humphrey took a sip of sherry, and nodded to Bernard to take the other.

Conversation lulled, and Humphrey's mind drifted backwards slightly, beyond Bernard's amiability and towards the confrontation which he had never believed the other man capable- no, that was the wrong word- _willing_ to engage in. "I believe I still owe you my gratitude, Bernard." He raised an eyebrow, effectively silencing the other's protestations. "I can't imagine what possessed you, but I thank you for it. There are not many who would do the same."

Bernard's fingers seemed to itch with anticipation, and he focused on the swirling depths of the drink in his hand. Humphrey wanted an explanation, but would not ask for one. He need not give one. But how he wished to...

It was foolish.

He was waiting-

For what? What was he waiting for? They were alone, amiable, amused, even... Would there be any better moment to declare his reasoning?

If he voiced it now, there was a very high chance that there would, indeed, be no better time.

Or time at all.

Hello Swansea, Vehicle Licensing Centre.

...It couldn't be all that bad, could it? Yes. Yes, it could. But the suspense, the gradual slide into helpless hopelessness was very frustrating. Humphrey was married- still married. This was the wrong time, for all sorts of reasons.

Bernard raised the glass to occupy his lips and prevent inadvertency, and his lack of response prompted Sir Humphrey's suspicions. Why would he not answer the simple question? Modesty, perhaps?

"...Bernard?"

His hand tipped the glass, and all the liquid it contained hurtled down his throat and into the bloodstream. Bernard kept his gaze firmly locked onto it as he replaced it on the table.

"Er- that is, I-" Obviously, it was being far too slow to kick in. What had he expected, that a single glass of sherry would send him into a state of fearlessness? Perhaps he'd been hoping to collapse instead, a snide thought remarked. "I- um, I wanted to be of assistance. He was crowing over your- erm, he... You d-don't deserve to be spoken to like...that."

"Bernard, I don't quite understand you." Beat. "Bernard?"

The younger man raised his head, eyes darting back up to the face opposite him, expression caught in the act of changing from terror to desperation; his voice, when he began to speak, was hushed, little more than a murmur. "I am in love with you."

Humphrey's face wiped itself clean of all emotion, locking down into itself, a neutral mask hiding the shock that paralysed his mind. Lightning had struck his very consciousness and frozen the cogs and coils of his brain.

Impossible.

Yet he had heard those words.

He had seen Bernard's mouth form those words.

Had he gone mad?

Humphrey did not even seem to blink. He was motionless, emotionless, without any hint of reaction.

Bernard's chest began to ache.

Fool.

The blush he expected began to burn up his throat, and flight shot, unbidden, into his limbs.

Humphrey was hauled from his shocked state by a blur of movement as Bernard pelted out of the room.

Shit.

"Bernard!"

Glass fell onto the table. That was going to stain.

So be it.

Even in his panic, Bernard slowed to grab his briefcase and coat as he nipped past them- his own name echoed along the hallway, nipping and biting at his heels, and he abandoned the coat, which refused to budge from the hat stand.

A hand grasped his left shoulder and checked his progress. His feet stopped their struggle, and every patch of skin seemed to burn with humiliation.

"Bernard..."

There was a softness to the tone, or was that solely his imagination?

If it was, he was quite prepared to believe it; it could only be an improvement on reality.

The voice called him into a turn without his realising, and his eyes could not avoid the gaze lashing into them.

"You might have waited for a response."

"I- you seemed- I was...I was afraid."

"I was afraid that I had misheard you."

Bernard's brow creased. "What- I, erm, I thought you were disgusted or-"

"I was not. I am not." Humphrey sighed, and relaxed into a typical mode of expression. "Bernard, in light of this utterly unexpected, not to say rather abrupt but by no means disagreeable revelation, when considered in relation to other recent realisations, nothing precipitate at this stage, and with all necessary give and take, in the final analysis or, indeed, the present instance, one might be inclined towards a synonymous yet transposed resolution of equal magnitude, with the end result that such aforesaid articles might go so far as to exceed the hypothetical and precipitate a mutually satisfactory arrangement."

Bernard shook his head in total bewilderment. "I'm sorry Humphrey, but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about."

"I hold you in the highest of affections, Bernard. In fact, I find myself quite besotted with you." Humphrey decided that the easiest way to remove the expression of complete disbelief, currently plastered to Bernard's face was to kiss him, and proceeded to do so.

"Are we clear, Bernard?"

"As clear as mud, Humphrey."


End file.
